


Becoming

by Fossarian



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 11:35:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18777481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fossarian/pseuds/Fossarian
Summary: Sansa sees something she shouldn't.





	Becoming

It starts when he helps her off her horse. 

He’s done it a thousand times and Sansa still isn’t sure why this time is so different. 

But it is. 

He’s not even paying attention to her, his head turned, throwing some jest back towards her brother Robb who stands leaning idly on his longbow. 

His gloved hands come up and fit around her waist and she slides easily off the saddle. He’s so strong, it’s nothing for him to pull her off of the animal. 

This realization comes fast on the heels of another and she feels as though she is being swallowed up by it. That she'll never get out again. 

Somehow, her slippered foot twists and she stumbles on the descent. She’s suddenly flush with his body and for the first time in her life she’s aware of Theon Greyjoy in a way she’s never been before. 

He’s always just _been there_. Like Robb or her father. As necessary and as unremarkable to her as the walls of Winterfell. 

Startled, his head snaps back to hers and his hands tighten briefly around her waist. Her breasts, what small ones she can claim, press hard against his chest. 

She’s shocked by the sheer _physicality_ of Theon. Upon tripping, she had grasped his arms to steady herself and she can feel how tight his muscles are, honed from hours and hours of lifting a sword and shooting arrows. His chest is like stone. All of him is, as if there was nothing in him but brittleness. The tips of her breasts tighten behind the bindings of her linen. 

It’s only a moment and he lifts her up and rights her on her feet. “You’re clumsy,” he says. 

“Yes,” she says, a little breathlessly. 

He gives her a funny look and steps away. Turns back to Robb and sanity, no doubt. 

She can still feel the press of his fingers against her hips. 

+

Now she is here, crouched behind a cracked windowpane outside a house of ill-repute. It had been a flight of fancy that had caused her to follow Theon to this place. Madness, like one of Arya’s more ridiculous ideas.

She ought to go home. It’s none of her business what Theon Greyjoy gets up to during his free hours. 

But she’d seen Theon smirk at the painted lady near the stables and that had been all it took to commit her to this foolishness. Theon is _always_ looking at girls. He talks to the peasants in the yard. The pretty ones, anyway. His head will tip to the side in a gesture bleakly familiar to Sansa, and he will say something to the girl and she will usually blush or laugh. Sometimes she will scowl, as if insulted. 

But they always go with him. 

Sansa’s legs are numb from the position she has locked herself into. She dare not move. She doesn’t want to move. 

From her place in the shadows, she has a perfect view of the activities within. 

Theon is fucking the woman from behind. He’s got a fistful of her hair and the force of it pulls the woman’s head back. But she doesn’t seem to mind. 

She’s very beautiful. Her perfect, full breasts swing with each thrust of Theon’s hips. Sansa’s cheeks heat, acutely aware of her own childish body in comparison. A vague irritation scritches at the back of her mind at this nameless woman who has so effortlessly attracted Theon’s attention.

But of course, seeing her, Sansa understands. 

And why shouldn’t Theon have her if he wants? These matters are not for Sansa, for a lady of Winterfell. Her mother would faint from mortification if she found out a daughter of hers was scurrying about strangers’ windows, peeping in like the dirty men her father’s guards chase away from the gates. 

But she stays where she is. Having come this far, the sin can’t be compounded now. 

Abruptly, Theon straightens up and steps away from the woman, his fist still in her hair. It has to hurt. Sansa’s heart flips in a weird, not unpleasant way. It _must_ hurt.

Theon walks the woman to the bed and pushes her back down on it, facing up this time. Sansa is frightened, sick with fear at discovery, of witnessing this sight that is not for her eyes. Was never meant for her. 

Or is that the reason she keeps looking? 

When Theon goes to the bed, his body is facing Sansa’s window, and without really wanting to see it her eyes go straight to his cock, erect and slick from the woman’s body, watches in a sort of horrified awe as he grasps it and positions himself to enter her again. He does so, entering her so hard she lurches up the bed. 

The woman murmurs something and Theon halts briefly, pushes sweat-damp hair off his forehead, and laughs, a pretty baritone. His shoulders shake a little before he composes himself and Sansa desperately wants to know what the woman said to make him laugh like that. 

He thrusts back in a few times and Sansa feels as if she is right there with him, that he’s close to whatever he’s been striving for. His movements are more erratic, muscles tense. His stomach is so flat, and a little scarred. He’s never been in a battle. Sansa wonders where he got all the cuts. Wonders if he ever went to her mother to tend to them. 

She thinks no. 

He keeps making little noises, gasps that almost sound like pain. Sansa breathes in sharply through her nose as he suddenly pulls out and grasps his cock, stroking fast. His free hand grips the woman’s head and forces it up, forces her to take all of his seed. She stays in that arched position, her lovely face bent at an angle, and when Theon is done her red mouth curves in a smile and she licks her lips like there’s nothing she’d rather taste. 

“You could have done it inside me, you know,” Sansa hears her say. 

Sansa's mind reels, shook back to her roots at the reminder that this isn't an exchange of two people who love each other. The way it is in songs. 

Theon smirks, but Sansa is looking at his eyes and they are pale and distant. “You’d charge extra for that, I’m sure.” 

Little tremors continue to run up Theon’s spine and he collapses on her, crawling up the woman’s body to bury his face in her breasts. His hands, locked in to angry fists for so long, finally unclench and he just lays there, and the woman lets him. Lets him until his breathing is smooth and deep and she and Sansa both are watching him sleep.

Sansa hurls her body back into the night. 

She doesn’t remember the run into the castle, or the flight up the tower stairs. All she is aware of is her own panicked breaths and her useless slippers slapping on the stone. She runs until she reaches her own bed and leaps into it, burying fully clothed beneath the covers. Sick and panting, she rucks her dress up and stuffs two fingers between her hot thighs, twisting them inside of her. Theon’s body flashes like lightning across her memory. She squeezes her eyes shut, but that just makes the images more clear. She hears him, his gentle grunts and the way his breathing spiked up at the end, like the whole thing was as nightmarish as it looked, like he wouldn’t stop it for anything in the world. 

In her mind, his hand is rough and calloused on her face, and he holds her there, holds her down, and does what he wants. Because Sansa cannot.


End file.
